


For Now

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, you just need to stop thinking to make sense of things.</p><p>Warnings / Contents: Incest, language, age difference - 18 / 26, fellatio, angsty boys<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	For Now

The wine was far too rich for him, but Ron glugged it back anyway. It felt good to be drinking, to be knocking the liquid back like he was used to both it and the effect it was having on him. His head was spinning on the axis of his neck and his throat burned, but he didn't regret it. He swapped from glass to cigarette, sucking from the stick and closing his eyes. He tilted his head back and exhaled.  
  
“Fuck, don't do that, Ron.” Charlie's admonishment was breathless and lustful. Ron knew that because that was how all of their encounters started – with Charlie sounding like _that_. “You look...”  
  
His older brother trailed off and Ron took another drag for effect. He was playing dangerously but he couldn't help it. Charlie had brought him such pleasure before and he wanted it again. He wanted more. As far as he knew, Charlie wanted to give it to him. Ron wasn't above coercion if his brother wasn't as willing as he'd first thought.  
  
A sense of propriety had prevented them from doing much else than rutting against one another whilst trying to get off. They always had, leaving them lying red-faced, panting and almost shy against one another. Ron knew his second eldest sibling was anything but shy. Ron was shy because, despite Lavender, despite Hermione – nobody else had ever helped him to jack off apart from his right hand.  
  
He reached out and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on Charlie's bedside table. Their mother would kill them if she knew they were smoking in the bedroom. Smoking full stop, really. He made a face and attempted to push all thoughts of their mother from his mind because, if she were ever to find out about what her second child and youngest boy were doing, a smoking discovery would have been far preferable. He knocked back the rest of his wine and set the glass down next to the ashtray.  
  
Determined to get what he had come for, he leant forward and made a fist in the front of Charlie's t-shirt, pulling him closer until Ron could count the freckles on the bridge of his nose. They kissed, a union full of damp lips, spit and tongue, and Ron shifted until he was pressed into Charlie's front, his arms wrapped around him, one hand buried in the thick, messy curls which drove their mother mad.  
  
He cursed at her sudden reappearance in his thoughts. _Go away. Please, go away._  
  
Perhaps Charlie read his mind, but he suddenly pulled back with a reddening face. He jumped to his feet and hurried to the window. He opened it and didn't turn back to look at Ron. Feeling bruised all of a sudden, Ron slumped where he sat, mouth hanging open gormlessly with his brother's spit glistening on his lips.  
  
“I think you should go.” Charlie's words weren't more than a whisper but Ron caught them anyway. He knew the rhythm of his brother's voice, loved the way it rose and fell and the memories he had of it singing him to sleep when he was little.  
  
His fingers began to tingle with the urge to touch.  
  
“I don't want to go,” Ron replied, no louder than Charlie. A bus thundered by on the street below the flat. More traffic followed, white noise filtered into the room but Charlie didn't answer.  
  
Eventually the silence between them grew so heavy that Ron was compelled to do something. Anything. He just had to show Charlie how much he wanted it – wanted _him_. He moved quietly across the carpet so that when he touched his hands to Charlie's hips, the twenty-six-year-old jumped. He didn't acknowledge Ron any further, however. Ron found himself grateful of his height as he leant forward and brushed his lips over the nape of Charlie's neck. His brother shivered beneath his touch.  
  
“Why are you doing this to me?” Charlie groaned, tipping his head back and leaning it on Ron's shoulder.  
“I thought you wanted me to. You said you wanted me...”  
“I do.” Charlie reached for Ron's hand and pulled it to his chest. “I do,” he reiterated, squeezing the hand he held. “But I shouldn't. And you shouldn't want me. We shouldn't have done anything and I shouldn't want to do filthy things to you and make you scream.”  
  
Ron bit back a moan as his cock twitched in his pants.  
  
“But we do,” he whispered, when he trusted his voice to behave.  
“We can't.”  
“We already have and last night you said you wanted to show me more.”  
“I was shitfaced on Firewhiskey last night.”  
“And you're stone cold sober now?”  
  
Charlie snorted through his laugh and shook his head.  
  
“Thought not.” Ron kissed his shoulder. “But soberer, I suppose.”  
“Is that a word?”  
“Who gives a fuck?”  
  
Ron pulled his hand free to wrap his arms tightly around his brother's torso. He squeezed the ample frame and heard Charlie's intake of breath.  
  
“It's so many kinds of wrong,” Charlie moaned.  
“What is?”  
“This!” he exploded, breaking free of Ron's hold and turning to face him. “This.” He grabbed with absolute precision, enabling him to grip Ron's erection through his jeans. “ _This_ is wrong, and you're fucked in the head if you think it isn't.”  
“Then y-you should have said n-no.” Ron was suddenly hot all over. “The first time.”  
“I couldn't.”  
“Then why are you giving me this shit now?” Temper getting the better of him, Ron threw his hands up in frustration. “Didn't you ever listen to mum? Never dip your finger in the cauldron if you're not prepared to get burnt!”  
“For years I've made not listening to our mother my main goal in life!” Charlie's voice wavered desperately over the word 'mother'. Ron wondered if he felt the same guilt. “But this is something different completely... not to mention the fact that you're only bloody eighteen, Ron.”  
“I could have been younger.”  
“You're young enough. And if you think you're gay, go and find yourself a boyfriend rather than trying to fuck your brother, you fucking freak.”  
“Ouch.”  
  
The word was a gasp which escaped him without him really knowing he had done it. He felt like someone had pulled a stopper out of his body and he was rapidly deflating, allowing all of his life and warmth to trickle away. It must have shown because where seconds before Charlie's face had been alive with anger, it was suddenly ashen with fear.  
  
“Ron, I didn't-”  
“Yeah, I think you did,” he breathed, reaching up to rub at his chest.  
  
Why did it hurt so much? Ron had no idea, but the ache built with each second that passed. He'd thought he'd known rejection but it was nothing to the cold horror which seemed to be filling him up, vein by vein, breath by breath. Unseeing, he turned and made for the door. Out of the bedroom, into the sitting room. He nearly tripped over the laces of his trainers as he rammed them on his feet. He snatched a coat, not even knowing if it was actually his. He shoved his arms into it and then he was gone, slamming the door behind him, jumping at the bang he'd created. He didn't hang around. He found himself out in the December air before he knew it. The pain in his chest flared so much that he bent double, ending up staring at the pavement between his feet.  
  
Another bus rumbled past. The noise made him jump, straighten and leap back against the wall. He rubbed his chest again. He pulled the coat tight around him. It _wasn't_ his. It smelt pervasively of Charlie. Ron inhaled and shuddered on release. The scent of his brother was torture, but somehow it helped.  
  
***  
  
“Earth to Ron?”  
  
Ron blinked. The shelf of Wonder Witch boxes came back into bright pink view. He quickly adjusted one and stepped back, hoping to pretend that he hadn't been dwelling on Charlie yet again and been caught in the act.  
  
George looked at him with unnerving intensity. Ron didn't meet his eye and instead pulled a broom towards him.  
  
“You've already done that. Twice.” George folded his arms over his chest. “What's the matter with you? There's only room for one headcase in this shop, and that's me.”  
  
Ron gripped the broom so hard that his knuckles bleached white. He stared dumbly at it, finding that he had no recollection of sweeping the shop floorboards twice. His concentration seemed shattered, unable to piece together for even a second before he was recalling, analysing and reliving the pain of three nights before. He hadn't heard from Charlie since. Ron had locked himself away in his room at the Burrow and only emerged to help George in the shop. Christmas shoppers hid a multitude of sins.  
  
“You've gone again. What's _wrong_ with you?”  
  
When Ron didn't answer quick enough for his liking, George walked close and slapped his hands together. Ron leapt out of his skin. Laughing, George shook his head.  
  
“What is it, Ron? You were only ever this quiet as a kid when you'd wet yourself, and at eighteen I'd really hope you were past that...”  
“Ah, crap.” The bravado rolled easily off his tongue and Ron forced himself to smile.  
  
He should have known that out of everyone, it wouldn't convince George. George who, since May, had become the undisputed champion of masking his true emotions and needs. George, who once the door was locked on the cramped flat above the shop, fell apart each night and permitted nobody to see him or help him. Ron only knew because he'd glimpsed the remnants one morning when George hadn't been expecting him.  
  
He swallowed, remembering the tight grip George's fingers had held on his throat and the unhinged look in his eyes as he threatened to commit harm if Ron told anybody what he had seen. Ron hadn't told a soul, but every day since he'd been at the shop by half past eight in the morning and didn't leave until six in the evening. The rest of the family seemed grateful that he was willing to put the hours in, to spend so much time with his grieving, broken brother.  
  
Ron tried not to roll his eyes at himself. Lately, it seemed his brothers were the only people he wanted to know. How very different to seven years ago, when Hogwarts had been _it_ , his chance for freedom, glory and friends – friends who liked him for him, and not because he was their mediocre younger brother and they _had_ to love him.  
  
“Ron.” George was back, his voice oddly soft amongst the shelves and displays of garish products. “What's up? Is something wrong?”  
  
Unable to find his voice, Ron allowed himself to nod.  
  
“D'you want to talk about it?” George's brow was furrowed. Ron hated seeing it. George had enough on his plate without him adding to the teetering pile.  
“No,” he forced out. His throat was thick.  
“Is it serious?”  
“No.” Ron lied.  
  
Of course it was serious. It felt like there was a Hippogriff sitting on his chest. Or a dragon. That was more apt. Every breath seemed laboured and painful. He'd never known anything like it and he thought he'd suffered heartbreak when he'd departed from the Horcrux hunt. Yet that seemed a lifetime ago, and Hermione was at Hogwarts studying for NEWTs she didn't need and they weren't together. They'd tried but something had wormed between them and made it so much less special than it should have been.  
  
His blossoming interest in men might have had something to do with it, but he'd never told her that. Luckily she seemed content to put it down to childhood romances not living up to expectation. Ron had breathed a sigh of relief, given her a hug and sent her on her way to Hogwarts, only marginally sad that he wasn't boarding the train with her. Harry hadn't bothered either. He was busy renovating Grimmauld Place, planning his wedding and generally being a Poster Boy for Happiness. Ron didn't begrudge him it. He was pleased for Harry and pleased for Ginny. Their romance had prospered where his and Hermione's had drastically failed. Though nobody had really mourned for it, Ron couldn't help but feel uneasy as his heart led him further down a path which could only ever end in trouble.  
  
Charlie spelled trouble for him. His own brother and a mutual sexual attraction which should never, ever have come to light. But there it was, eating away at him, and he felt like he'd lost a part of himself for not having spoken to Charlie in three days. He'd not spoken to Hermione in weeks.  
  
He didn't want to commit it to spoken word, but what he was feeling was something else entirely. He knew it, Charlie knew it and if Ron didn't snap out of the murky layer of misery which he had permitted to surround him, everyone else would end up knowing it, too.  
  
“I'm fine,” he said forcedly and stood up straight. He leant the broom back against the shelves. “What do you want me to do now?”  
  
***  
It was raining. Pouring. Ron hadn't seen a deluge like it in a long time. He turned on to his side and looked up through the window. The noise was soothing, even though he was at the top of the house, with only one set of floorboards between him and the roof which was probably leaking. Even the ghoul seemed to be listening to the downpour. The entire house was still and Ron held his breath to contribute to the silence. Eventually he exhaled and pulled the covers up over his shoulder, closing his eyes and willing sleep to come. It was three in the morning and he had four hours before he had to be up, in the shower and ready to go to Diagon Alley for George. He'd been in bed since ten, tossing and turning, unable to drift off and knowing exactly why.  
  
Everyone had come for dinner, everyone except Charlie, who begged off with a weak excuse delivered by Bill, who beefed it up and made it plausible. Ron was probably the only one looking for the real truth and hence he had found it; he was confident that everybody else had believed that an old flame was in town and wanted to meet up.  
  
If it _was_ true, then it had to be a really old flame, as Charlie had confessed to him that there'd been nobody for a few years.  
  
A creak on the floorboards outside his room sent Ron flying into a sitting position. The war had not been over for long enough to chase the fear out of his mind. His wand was in hand before he knew he'd picked it up. When the door opened, he held it out in front of him with a curse on the tip of his tongue.  
  
“Don't.” Charlie shut the door quietly behind him. “It's just me.”  
  
Heart hammering in his chest, Ron nearly dropped his wand altogether.  
  
“I need you to come with me.” Charlie held out his hand for Ron to take. He waited in silence.  
  
Ron thought about refusing, to perhaps cause a slice of pain in the same way that Charlie had hurt him, but there was no question really that he would not follow. He got out of bed and took his brother's hand. It was warm but slightly moist in the palm. Fingertips curled into place and then Ron felt the hook of apparition deep in his belly. He made sure to hold onto his wand and tuck his elbows in as they spun out of The Burrow, leaving the rainy Devonshire night behind.  
  
When his feet touched solid ground again, he was on carpet. Charlie's flat, it turned out, when he opened his eyes. Outside, the rain poured past the window in London just as it had in Ottery St Catchpole. He couldn't help but notice how clean the flat looked compared to his last visit, how many candles there were and how good it smelt. Charlie had made as much effort as his natural state of messiness allowed him to make. Ron looked at him expectantly.  
  
“I'm sorry.” Charlie picked up his hands. “I'm sorry for what I said. It wasn't called for and I wish I could take it back.”  
“I wish you could too,” Ron agreed.  
“If I could...” Charlie reached up and tucked some of Ron's hair behind his ear. “I would. But words are cunts like that. They don't come back once they've been delivered. But a person can make up for words which have caused pain.”  
  
Again, Ron considered resisting the affection which Charlie offered, but batted the thought away. Charlie enveloped him in his arms and held him tight, kissing his forehead. It was awkward for him, being shorter than his eighteen-year-old brother, but he managed until Ron offered up his lips to save him the trouble. Ron welcomed the roughness which seemed to take hold then, which caused Charlie to creep fingers into his hair and hold his head, to tilt it back to open up his lips before hungrily tonguing his mouth. Toes curling against the carpet, Ron let himself be kissed. The part of him which had been missing was immediately back and he felt whole again.  
  
“I missed you,” he whispered, when Charlie abandoned his mouth for a moment for the sake of a breath. “I've been going nuts.”  
“So have I. I had to clean my fucking flat, I was so bonkers.”  
“Its good,” Ron assured him. “Smells much better now you've got the fart smell out.”  
“Took some doing, let me tell you.” A smile curled Charlie's lips and, for a moment, his eyes sparkled in the way that they always had done before the battle.  
  
“Am I forgiven?” he whispered softly, mouthing kisses over one of Ron's cheeks. “Please say yes. I can't bear another day apart from you, denying this.”  
“You might be.” Ron smiled as Charlie sucked on his neck. “If you stop bloody changing your mind every fucking five minutes. What's happening? Are you going to get carried away and then push me out again?”  
“No.” Charlie shook his head. Ron believed him.  
“Oh.” He was suddenly tingling from head to toe.  
  
“No,” Charlie repeated stepping back and snatching up a hand. He pulled and Ron followed him towards the bedroom. “No. This time, you're going to get what you want.”  
“Not what you want?” Ron asked hesitantly, pausing just before the threshold into Charlie's bedroom.  
“What I want too. But trust me... when I'm done, it's going to be all about you, and you're going to want more.”  
  
Charlie waggled his eyebrows and winked. Ron let himself be pulled into the room and Charlie sent him careening onto the bed. Bouncing, Ron felt the air leave his lungs as his brother jumped on top of him. Suddenly, his hands were everywhere, caressing, squeezing and massaging. Ron stretched out and tipped his head back onto the bed. Charlie didn't hesitate or seek further confirmation as he hooked his fingers inside the elastic of Ron's pyjama bottoms. He pulled them down, exposing first lower belly and everything south of that in quick succession. Ron felt his face burn red with embarrassment. Nobody had ever seen him naked and aroused before. He had no idea how he compared to other men or even if he was attractive or not.  
  
Charlie seemed unable to look up, his eyes fixed in position at Ron's groin. Ragged breath curled over the sensitive flesh and Ron gasped. That alone was already more than anybody else had ever done to him.  
  
“This is called a blow job,” Charlie said to him, a filthy smile twisting his mouth. “And you're going to love it.”  
“I know what it's-” Ron didn't get to finish as all coherency was snatched away by the sensation of Charlie's mouth slipping around the head of his cock.  
  
He immediately wanted to call back the stream of babble which tumbled out of his mouth. It embarrassed him, as did the heightening pitch of the moan deep in his throat. Charlie's lips formed a tight ring around him and slid all the way from tip to base and back again. Ron clutched at the blankets beneath him and held on for dear life. Charlie slid up and down again and Ron had no idea how anybody lasted more than seconds with their cock being sucked.  
  
Ron pressed his hips upwards and moaned as Charlie muffled something around his mouthful. Strong fingers spread either side of his crotch and pinned him to the bed. Ron moaned louder and Charlie sucked harder. That patterned continued until Ron was practically gibbering at the ceiling, alternating between swearing and calling his brother's name.  
  
“Fuck...” he whimpered, chest bouncing with the effort of clinging onto his orgasm.  
  
The beginning of the end came, however, when Charlie moved back to the head and began a steady, firm lapping across his slit. Ron had never before heard the guttural, lusty grunt that he let out as his climax took hold and uncoiled like a pulled spring through the pit of his belly, balls, cock and thighs, burning whatever flesh it encountered. He spilt into Charlie's mouth with no more warning than a shocked cry and then it was done.  
  
He expected Charlie to detach, to sit up or at least spit out his come. Girls did that, he'd been told. But then he'd also been told that some girls swallowed. Charlie was swallowing his come like he did it every night of his life, until he seemed content to have drunk Ron dry before gently releasing him. Ron hissed as the air assaulted his exposed skin. Charlie took a moment to ease his foreskin back up to alleviate the discomfort.  
  
Ron lay on his back, unable to do anything but try to breathe. The ceiling looked blurry and started to spin. He closed his eyes to it. A hand smoothed onto his stomach and moved up over his chest. Charlie's weight shifted to lie alongside him. Ron was too exhausted to jump in surprise when the tip of his nose was kissed.  
  
“Are you still with me?” Charlie asked. Ron could hear the amusement in his tone.  
“Just about,” he grunted in response, finally opening his eyes to look up into an expectant face.  
“Well?” Charlie asked pointedly.  
“Well what?”  
  
An exasperated huff made Ron grin.  
  
“How was it?”  
“Eh... I've had better.”  
“Oh really?!”  
“Fuck no.” Ron snorted. “Merlin.”  
“I doubt he could give head as good as I can.”  
“I doubt anybody could.”  
  
Charlie kissed him then, tenderly and soulfully and full of everything that Ron had sorely been missing since they'd parted.  
  
“I still don't know where this can possibly go,” he whispered finally, a worried expression creeping over his freckled face. “I don't.”  
“Then don't think about it for now. There's no answer right now. So let's just ignore it for a bit.”  
  
Fingers stroked his cheek. “I'd like to.”  
“Then do it,” Ron implored. “We have privacy here. Nobody would have any reason to even think about suspecting us. This can be between us and us alone and Charlie... it could be fucking great.”  
“Or it could be a disaster...”  
  
Ron shrugged. He'd run out of argument. Charlie seemingly had too, as his next move was to simply pull Ron into his arms and hold him tight. Charlie stroked his back and Ron inhaled from his skin.  
  
“For now, then.” Charlie entwined their legs and fingers. “Just for now. Or...”  
“Maybe more.” Ron finished the sentence for him.  
“Mm.”  
  
The peace of the room was only pierced by their breathing. Ron had one ear pressed against Charlie's chest and counted the steady thumping of his heart. He closed his eyes.  
  
 _fin_


End file.
